


Wilderness of the Mind

by mokuyoubi



Category: Hannibal (TV), Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Codependency, Dreams vs. Reality, M/M, Mindfuck, More Tags as I update
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-08-04 13:16:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16347413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: In the early days, they’d been drunk on what they could create, limited only by the boundaries of their imagination. That, of course, had quickly proved dangerous, and yet it had taken news of Mal’s death to really drive home the point. What they did in the dream had a tangible, lasting impact on the real world. They needed rules, and structure.Will left the dream science division of the BAU after his architect, Garrett Jacob Hobbs, was driven crazy by the project. Now, three years later a series of murders has caught Jack Crawford's eye. What at first seems like a series of copycats killings turns out instead to be the work of a single killer, implanting the idea in the heads of the perpetrators.  The elusive Chesapeake Ripper has resurfaced, and Will is the only one who can find the traces left on the mind from Inception, and follow them back to the source. But his own grip on reality is tenuous at best, haunted by the projections of his past. Jack insists on a dream proxy, in the form of Doctor Hannibal Lecter, to help ensure the projections remain locked away...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stellarluna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellarluna/gifts).



> For my lovely [Stellarluna](http://stellarluna35.tumblr.com/) who requested this ages ago for the Puerto Rico auction. I've stressed over it a lot, and it's sat collecting dust on my computer, but I've recently been inspired again, so I'll be posting it as a WIP. I have a nice solid outline for where it will go, but as you know, these characters tend to have a minds of their own...
> 
> This is a fusion of the two universes, with references to some of the characters and events from Inception, though at this point I don't think there will be any actual crossover appearances. No knowledge of Inception is necessary, but all the same, I'd recommend the movie very highly--it's one of my favourites!

Will heard the hum of the engine long before the car turned down his drive, crunching gravel under wheel. Out here, with no one else around for miles, and no one with any reason to visit, it was impossible to miss these interruptions to the stillness of the afternoon. The dogs noticed it too. Winston perked up, while Max, Buster, and Zoe started to dance in excitement.

As the car drew nearer, Will considered the very short list of potential occupants--a brave solicitor, or someone woefully lost, both easily dealt with. It was highly unlikely, however, that anyone would stumble upon his driveway by chance. There was only one person who would seek him out personally, intentionally…

Will weighed the idea of just hiding against Jack’s tenacity, and found he didn’t like his odds. Even if he could corral the dogs inside, his Honda was glaringly obvious under the carport. If Jack bought that he wasn’t home, he’d probably just camp outside. Eventually Will would be forced out by necessity when he ran out of groceries, or otherwise Jack would wear down his resistance by telling him the details of whatever case brought him here through the door.

He was trying, and failing, to come up with some eloquent and succinct way to explaining to Jack why he wasn’t going to help, but when Jack finally pulled into view, that all went out the window. Suddenly all he could see was Garrett’s grotesque smile stretched across sickly grey skin, and the familiar prickle of fear dotted sweat down Will’s spine. He could feel the presence of the black creature at his back, breathing on his neck. His fingers itched for the feel of rabbit fur and the barbed point of the hook to remind himself what was real and what wasn’t.

“You drove a long way out here just for me to tell you no,” was all he could manage when Jack opened his car door. “I could have said it just as easily over the phone.”

Jack didn’t look deterred, with his easy smile and eyes that didn’t miss a thing. He took Will in silently, reminding Will of nothing so much as a predator. “You’re looking good.”

Will scowled. “Don’t mistake a tan for healthfulness.”

Jack, on the other hand, did not look well. He looked tired, worn around the edges, and not just from travel. Despite himself, Will couldn’t help but notice all the little details he’d rather not. Dressed as sharply as ever, but in clothing that didn’t quite fit right from the weightloss, hair gone over entirely in grey, the cut of deep-grooved lines in his forehead and around his mouth. The wedding band that slipped lose to the second knuckle and the skin around it red and flakey like a rash.

The last time they’d seen one another had been Bella’s funeral, and at that memory, Will’s resolve began to crumble. “You want something to drink?”

“I would _love_ a cup of coffee.”

Will turned away towards the house. “I’ve got iced tea,” he muttered.

Inside his tiny hovel of a home, Jack looked like a giant, and was as subtle in his scrutiny. Will didn’t even have to look to see what he must be thinking. His whole life condensed down to these couple dusty rooms. No computer or television, just his phone for when he needed to contact the outside world. Piles of books littering most of the empty spaces, an obvious dearth of what had once been ubiquitous lures. Jack knew he could have afforded to buy better and he knew why Will hadn’t, and the pity was almost suffocating in his tiny kitchen. 

Will suffered through Jack’s prattling small talk about Katz, Price, and Zeller while he got down the cups and ice and put sugar in Jack’s glass for him. Then he set the glasses on the table top with more force than was necessary and said, “What are you doing here, Jack?”

Jack had never been one to mince his words. “I need you back for this one, Will.” Will was shaking his head before he could finish, but Jack ploughed on undeterred. “Three dead already, DNA points to three separate killers and we’re tracking them down as we speak, but there’s no connection between the victims. We’ve got one suspect for the second murder who couldn’t have possibly done the other two.”

“Why do you think I could do any better than your entire team of investigators.” Jack gave him a droll look and Will sighed. He rubbed a hand over his face and wished he could just climb back into bed, pull the covers over his head and hide from the rest of the world. Not to sleep though. His dreams weren’t safe anymore, and Jack had to know that. Why would he ask this?

“So you think the real killer’s using a PASIV?” Will asked. “That he’s Incepting others to do the job for him.” It was a term that had been thrown around theoretically during his time on the project, though none had taken it seriously, no matter how Will cautioned them. “That would seem to narrow the field of suspects.”

“We’ve got PASIVs popping up on the black market all over the world,” Jack said. “They’re forming a fucking religion around it, shared dreams that go on for days--” 

“Days?” Will couldn’t hide the alarm in his voice. The risk of slipping into limbo under such heavy sedation would be dangerously high.

“A lot’s changed since you left us, Will. It’s a whole new world out there. Now I’ve got a serial killer out there infecting people’s minds through their dreams, and preliminary scans of our suspect’s subconscious show no signs of outside interference. This guy is good, and he could make anyone into a killer--I _need you_ on this one.”

“What about Chilton, then? I bet he’d jump at the chance.”

“Chilton leaves his mark behind on a mind like a child’s sticky fingerprints left on a window display.”

The image brought a smile unbidden to Will’s lips. There was a very good reason Chilton’s use of the PASIV was primarily for treatment of patients, and not for government work, or the private sector. “Kincade, then, or Cobb. I can give you a list of qualified retrieval specialists.”

Jack leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs, intent, and caught Will’s wandering gaze. Jack was always forcing eye contact. “I need someone who can walk through a subconscious and tell me which parts belong and which don’t. Which are natural and which are forgeries. This killer can get inside their minds without them ever knowing, and you’re the only other person I’ve met who can do that. Someone who can slip past any defenses they have in place, someone who can put their projections at ease. I’ve seen you confront violent projections and convince them you were the dreamer.”

“Garrett--” 

“What happened with Hobbs was a tragedy,” Jack said. “But it wasn’t your fault. It had nothing to do with you.”

But Jack had never been inside a dream where Will was the dreamer. He had no idea of the horrors that plagued his subconscious. The vault of monsters borrowed from the killers whose dreams he’d shared, like a virus passed from one mind to another. Once, Will had enough control to keep them from spilling out into the dreams he occupied, but after Garrett...

“You don’t know that, Jack.”

“You didn’t put the knife in his hand.” Jack reached across to lay a heavy hand on Will’s shoulder, and Will had to fight the urge to twist away, to retreat and curl in on himself.

“I didn’t have to,” Will said. “All I had to do was put the thought in his head.”

Jack lips pursed out. “Are you telling me you gave him the idea to carve up all those girls? To _eat_ them?” he asked.

Will ran a hand through his hair roughly, tugging on the long ends, like that would somehow shake all his jumbled thoughts into order. “I don’t know how else to explain it.” he said, throwing a hand in the air. “Someone sent him on that path, and he was my architect, we spent a lot of time in each other’s minds, and he wasn’t--he wasn’t like that, before.”

Jack was silent for a long stretch after that, no sound but the ocean and the clink of melting ice against glass. What could he even say in the face of that? Finally, he fished in the briefcase he’d brought along for a folder full of glossy photographs that he spilled out over the table top. Will only had to catch a glimpse of the top one before he knew what Jack was really doing here, and his eyes fell closed.

The victim had been posed a private box at a theatre, dressed in a sparkling beaded gown with the pattern of peacock feathers, and dripping in jewellery. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, makeup applied just so. From outside of the box, all that would have been visible of her, she might have looked as though she were still alive, transfixed on the show. 

Her wrists were slit, dark stains blooming over the carpet beneath, and the stomach had been split open. Will knew without asking that organs were missing, though the view was obscured by the fall of feathers that spilled from the wound and over her lap to the floor. Iridescent green of the cuckoo and the sandy cream and grey of geese and the pure white of a swan and a dozen other he couldn’t quite place, tinged in dried blood. In her right hand she clasped an antique silver mirror.

It might have taken them longer to realise the connection at first. After all, the person who’d carried out this murder didn’t have the same physical strength or surgical skill of the one who’d planted the idea in their mind. The cuts were in the right places, but they were messy and there were hesitation marks. But the grandiosity was still there, the message clear to someone who knew what to look for. 

This was the Chesapeake Ripper, without a question, coming out of retirement in style.

“You see it too,” Jack said. The hopeful rising pitch of his voice asked for Will to confirm what he’d suspected.

For him, it was personal, had been even before the Ripper had started sending him missives, like he _knew_ Jack intimately. Knew just where to apply pressure to make him crumble. Will had watched helplessly at the funeral when Jack received the flowers from him and read the accompanying message. He still didn’t know what it’d said, but Jack’s determination to catch him had become an obsession in that moment.

Will nodded his agreement. Likely no one at the Bureau was ready to blame the Ripper just yet. Not with Chilton claiming to have already caught him, and no murders to contradict him. But to those who knew him as intimately at Jack and Will, it was difficult to miss.

“One case, Will.” Desperation painted Jack’s words. “Help us put him away once and for all.”

The one thing that could bring Will back, and they both knew it. That if things hadn’t happened with Garrett how they had, Will would have caught the Ripper long ago. Even if it would end in disaster, he owed it to these new victims, who never would have died if he’d just done his job in the first place.

A shadow fell over the window, and Will glanced up, though he knew what he would see. The creature that had stalked him ceaselessly in the years since Garrett’s death. The silent figure in the corner of the room, watching him while he slept; lurking in the gloom of the garage as Will worked; following his footsteps along the beach, wildly out of place in the sunshine, so dark it seemed to swallow up all the light.

It watched him with those empty eyes, that expressionless face that never shifted a single muscle, yet Will could read its pity or hunger or malevolent omniscience. Now, it was smug and satisfied, as if it knew that Will was about to concede, and it had been the monster’s plan all along.

Will shielded his eyes from the sight with a hand to his forehead. The dull ache in his temples threatened to turn into a skull-splitting migraine any moment. “One case,” he agreed.

*

January in the Keys had been a balmy 72 degrees. Stepping out of the airport, a frigid wind sliced right through Will’s jacket. It cut deeper than could be see with the naked eye, chilling him from the inside out. 

In the years since he’d left and gone south, Will remembered DC like something from a bad dream--a place of perpetual wasting winter, where the sun never fully rose and the ground never thawed, and nothing grew. He’d taken to walking with one hand always in his pocket, wrapped around his totem, to remind him of what was real.

A waiting car delivered him to Quantico, those familiar, featureless slabs of rock of the BAU on the backdrop of a grey sky. As much as Will had never regretted leaving, he hadn’t realised how much he’d missed Beverly until he ran into her in the hallway and got wrapped up in a hug.

“Bev.” Will patted her back awkwardly as the seconds stretched on. When it became clear that she wasn’t letting go until there was some reciprocation, Will smiled at her stubbornness, rested his cheek on her hair, and brought his arms around her. “It’s good to see you.”

“I couldn’t believe it when Jack said you were coming back,” Beverly said, when she’d finally backed off. “I thought you were smarter than that.”

“Yeah, well…” Will shrugged. “You know I’ve never been good at telling him no.”

Beverly bumped his shoulder in camaraderie. “No one is good at telling Jack no. At least no one without a death wish.”

Jimmy and Brian were at least a bit more reserved in their welcoming, with handshakes and genial shoulder pats and the sort of tedious small talk that Will had _not_ missed during his time in seclusion. Thankfully Jimmy was his own brand of maladjust, and picking up on Will’s discomfort, segued into a description of the bodies they had laid out on their tables.

“Meet Victor Lane, Ted Walker, and Renee Spencer,” Jimmy said with a flourish. “All three died of exsanguination, all three missing organs. Mutilation done post-mortem.”

Zeller tapped his pen against the tray of the first. “Lane, the first victim, forty seven years old, defense attorney, missing his heart.” 

Will scoffed. “That feels a little heavy-handed for the Ripper.”

Beverly crossed her arms over her chest. “No one said anything about the Ripper,” she said, chin tipped back as she looked Will over shrewdly.

“Besides, it’s not like he’s always been so deft with his metaphors.” Jimmy waved jazz-hands in the air. “The whole humans are pigs thing.”

“You think this is the Chesapeake Ripper?” Beverly persisted. 

Beside her Zeller looked less than impressed with the suggestion. “Deft metaphors or not, the Ripper would never be so clumsy. He’s coming out of retirement with this? No way. If anything, we’re looking at a copycat.”

Will arched a brow. “Three different copycats?”

Zeller shrugged. “Maybe it’s a fan club,” he threw out sarcastically.

“Well, we all know how fond the Ripper was of his trophies,” Jimmy said, redirecting their attention. He walked Will through the other two bodies, Doctor Spencer missing her lungs and tongue, and Walker the businessman his liver. Each had been exceedingly wealthy, involved in various philanthropic endeavours, though they moved in different social circles. It was possible they’d crossed paths, but not in any significant way.

“Look,” Zeller said, shaking his head, “the Ripper always arranged his scenes meticulously. Every detail intentional, no stray evidence. These three were clumsy--there’s all sorts of physical evidence left at the scenes.”

“A plethora,” Jimmy agreed. “Fingerprints, stray hairs. Walker’s killer even cut himself, left behind his own blood trail.”

Will hummed under his breath in thought and Beverly caught his gaze. “What are you thinking?” Beverly had always trusted his instincts more than either of the other two, even when the leaps he made were off the edge of a cliff.

“In each case, capture and conviction won’t take a lot of effort. You’ve already got one suspect in custody. The others will follow.”

Of course, that had been the Ripper’s intention. It must have pleased him, to flaunt these murders in front of Jack’s eyes, knowing there was no refuting the evidence. How neatly he’d tied up all the loose ends, with these puppets locked away for his crime, and nothing to lead back to himself. 

Will could almost conjure the image of him, if he closed his eyes. The smug curve of his grin, the sick satisfaction of seeing Jack tie himself him knots. Even more clearly, he could see this wasn’t the first time the Ripper killed this way. Not as himself, and likely without any connection to be drawn between victim or method. 

Testing perhaps, how far he could take it, how deeply he could bury a suggestion in the mind of another. How far he could cause them to stray from their morals. Could he implant an idea entirely anathema to what they believed in, and how they lived their lives, and have them carry it out?

“There are others,” Will murmured. “Cases where the killer had no motive, no record, no previous violent tendencies. Didn’t try to protest their innocence, but unable to give a reason, and highly remorseful.”

The others shared a look and Zeller crossed his arms over his chest. “You could be describing thousands of different cases.”

Of course there was no way to track them all down, Will knew that, and surely the Ripper did, too. That even if one was discovered, a dozen more would go unnoticed. “I should see Jack.”

There were voices from the office--Jack’s own booming tone and another softer, more measured voice, the words impossible to pick out. Will knocked tentatively and Jack called out for him to enter. “Will!” he greeted. “You remember Doctor Lecter.”

Will fought the urge to groan. Of course he remembered Doctor Lecter. Called in to rubber stamp his last project with Garrett. Will recalled how he’d followed them around with that bland, affable smile. His reaction to using the PASIV for the first time, a complete tourist in his wonder at how they’d manipulated the dream.

“Yes,” Will answered cautiously. He nodded at Lecter. “Doctor Lecter.”

Lecter stood to offer him a hand. “It seems strange to cling to such formality, when we’ve walked in one another’s dreams; Hannibal is fine.”

Will gave him a tight smile and resolved to just avoid addressing him by name at all, if he could manage it. “Are you consulting on a case?”

Lecter darted a glance at Jack, and then back at Will, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “The same case, I believe, as you.” 

As if he could already hear Will numbering his protests, Jack spoke up. “Things have changed since you left us. The Bureau now insists on having a psychiatrist present for all dream interrogations, and to give approval before a subject is used in the course of an investigation.”

“I hope you don’t mind my tagging along again,” Lecter said.

Will rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to Jack. He took the seat beside Lecter’s. “I need to talk to you about the case.” At the wave of Jack’s hand, Will squirmed in discomfort, none too subtly angling his body away from Lecter’s. “You know I’ve theorised the Chesapeake Ripper had other victims, besides those we know of.” Jack nodded. “Well, I think he’s been practicing with Inception, before now.”

“It would make sense, given what I’ve read about the practice.” Will cast a sidelong look at Lecter, who sat with his legs primly crossed, a slim finger held to his lips in thought. “Inception can only work if the dreamer believes the idea comes from their own subconscious.”

Will shook himself from a momentary stupor. “I see you’ve come along in your understanding of the dream.”

“Hannibal has been assisting us during interrogations for some time now,” Jack said.

“Though I imagine it is something you never quite get used to,” Lecter said. “Walking into the mind of another.”

Still a tourist, then, along for the occasional ride but lacking a full appreciation for the potential of the dreamworld. The casual visitor could never understand spending so much time walking through minds of others that being confined within your own in the waking world felt like the unreality. They couldn’t understand the necessity for the totem as anything other than a curiosity.

Better to get this over with as quickly as possible, and then move on without Lecter’s interference. “I’ll need an architect.”

Jack parted his lips, like he was about to ask why Will couldn’t construct the dream himself, but apparently thought better of it. “I’ll have an agent meet you there.”

*

The suspect, Adam Banks, worked as a debt collector. Described by his co-workers and family as someone who was unpleasant and tended to rub people the wrong way, he’d never been violent or committed any crimes. In fact, he was a stickler for following the rules, and supported harsh penalties for criminals. 

It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that he would go off the deep end. In some people there were no warning signs. But Will could tell by just looking at the guy that he was deeply affected by what had happened. Though he’d lawyered up and been tight-lipped, the sweat dabbing his brow, the way his eyes darted around the room nervously, the way he drummed his bitten nails against the table--guilt was written in every gesture and every line of Banks’ body.

“I’ve recommended against this,” his lawyer was saying, looking between Will, Lecter, and her client. “In a PASIV interrogation the subject is highly suggestible--there are dozens of cases of coercion, you step one foot out of line, and I’ll have this thrown out and suggest to Judge Grady that you be charged with obstruction.”

Will nodded along impatiently and Lecter spoke in that soothing tone of his, “You’ll be there all the while, observing, as will I, though I’m sure Agent Crawford has already explained to you that Mister Graham’s goal is to find out who is truly responsible for this murder. If your client is innocent, then he has nothing to worry about.”

“The way I understand it,” Will said, removing his glasses to clean the lens, “Neither you nor your client has much of a say in this. Judge Grady already signed off on the order.”

Neither of them had anything to say to that, the lawyer’s red-painted lips pressed thin in displeasure, Banks’ head dropping heavily into his hands. 

The PASIV interrogation room was set up with reclining chairs around a central table where the nurse set out the case. She attached the lines to each of them and administered the sedative. The years since Will had last gone under slipped away with the familiar cold rush of the drugs running through his veins. He laid back his head, drew a deep breath, and counted backwards from ten.

When he opened his eyes he was standing in an office building, in a sea of cubicles. It was bland and nondescript, nothing but a template constructed by Agent Marion to provide a bit of structure to the dream. In the hours before the murder, Banks had been at work. Co-workers indicated nothing out of the ordinary. Had the suggestion to kill Spencer already been implanted, or had something occurred after he left the office that day?

Lecter and the lawyer stood off to the side, their grey suits blending in with the others like part of the background. The architect was nowhere to be seen, though likely observing as well. Will moved through the the aisles. After three years of natural dreams shrouded in fog, the clarity of the dream, the solidity of the world around him, was oddly reassuring.

He found Banks at his desk in the centre of the maze, on the phone, but as soon as he saw Will, he seemed to realise what was happening, and abruptly hung up. “Show me what happened,” Will said.

There was nothing remarkable about Banks’ afternoon. Will scrutinised every projection they came across, but there was nothing about any of them that was out of the ordinary. None of his exchanges raised any suspicion. It was all so mundane--calls to collect medical debt, lunch at a food cart outside the building, walking to his car in the parking garage. There was absolutely nothing.

They went further back, after Will spoke with the architect. It wasn’t as easily recalled as the events of that day, and the further they went, the more detail their surroundings lost, but Banks’ recollections remained strong. “This is fascinating,” Lecter commented, on observing the changes. “I’ve never witnessed an interrogation quite like this. They’re usually focussed on a much more specific timeframe.”

“The mind is capable of far more than we realise, Doctor. It’s all stored up here,” Will murmured, tapping his fingers to his temple. “The real trick is being able to bring it to the forefront of the mind. Making sense of it when muddled by other aspects of the dream.”

Yet no matter where they looked, there was no indication of any tampering. No indication of any other presence in Banks’ mind, no intrusion except his own. Will traced and retraced every step, and when their time was up, all he was left with was a splitting headache and nothing to show for it.

Beverly took one look at him when he joined them after and tossed him a bottle of painkillers from her desk. Will flashed her a brief smile. “Haven’t had to carry them on my person for a while now.”

“Must be nice,” Bev shot back.

Jack stepped forward impatiently. “Anything?” At Will’s hesitant headshake, Jack smacked his lips together in annoyance and turned away, every line of his body speaking towards the restraint it took to keep from shouting.

Jimmy looked between the both of them with a faint cringe. “Good news,” he said, somewhat meekly at first, continuing when Jack didn’t snap at him, “DNA on Walker’s killer should be ready by tomorrow.”

Jack rubbed a hand over his face. “Fine. Tomorrow morning.” He followed Will out in the hall and drew him aside. “What’s going on? You’ve never missed something in a dream before.”

“We both know that’s not true.” Will had to resolutely keep his gaze trained on Jack, for fear that if it strayed, he’d catch sight of Garrett’s spectre hovering over his shoulder. “The Ripper has always been incredibly careful not to leave a single piece of evidence. I don’t see why we should expect him to be any different when framing someone.”

“That would indicate someone who has a lot of experience with a PASIV, someone with a lot of time to practice,” Jack said. “He must have gotten his hands on one a while back.”

Will nodded absently. “Or someone with a very good understanding of the inner workings of the mind.”

“Can you do this, Will?”

“It’s going to take some time, I don’t know how long--I need to get more familiar with how Banks’ subconscious works on it’s own so I can see where it’s been under the influence of another. His lawyer didn’t seem thrilled by the prospect.”

Jack waved it off. “I’ll handle Stamper. We got lucky with Grady, he’s intrigued by the possibilities the PASIV opens up. In the meantime, get some rest, you look like you haven’t slept since I saw you in Florida.”

“I haven’t,” Will shot back.

*

The FBI had clearly pulled out all the stops on the room they provided. Will looked over the crowded space, the narrow swath of well-tread carpet between the bed and dresser, a wobbly desk with a single chair to double as a dining table. Will pulled the faded floral curtains closed tight, turned up the furnace, and flipped on the television before setting to the task of unpacking the closet. 

Generally speaking he avoided the news, but who knew? With the current situation, the Ripper might decide to try a different M.O., and it was possible no one else might make the connection. There were no murders to report today, but all the stations were still following Walker, the most recent of the killings. While no one in law enforcement had commented on a connection between the three, that hadn’t stopped the media from jumping to conclusions, and they were calling these this Socialite Slasher.

After a mind-numbing half-hour of listening to the speculation, he turned it off in disgust. It was still relatively early, but he hadn’t been lying to Jack. His sleep had been absolute shit since his visit, and travel always wore him out. He should probably eat something, and a shower wouldn’t go amiss, but the bed beckoned.

It was something he hadn’t missed about spending so much time in the dream world, and something those who didn’t use the PASIV on a regular basis couldn’t understand. Technically he was sleep, but it wasn’t a restful, restorative sleep. For one thing, the dreams experienced with the PASIV weren’t a substitute for REM, and worse, since time in the PASIV passed more slowly than in the real world, one might experience a days’ worth of activity while under, and wake to find that only a half hour had passed, and they still had the entire day to go. 

Permanent jetlag, Garrett had called it. One of many reasons those who’d worked on the project back in the day walked around like zombies with bags under their eyes. Will was known for falling asleep at his desk between classes, or passing out in his office grading papers, only to wake in the early hours of dawn to rush home and care for the dogs.

Will had grown used to the comforting rush of the ocean outside his door. Here, the rest of the world was far too close by, with all the sounds of traffic and a distant thrumming bass, the people in the next room talking and the room above watching a movie with the volume turned absurdly high. Will tucked his head under the pillow, blocking out as much noise and light as possible, and the spectre lingering in the corner.

Real dreams weren’t a respite, but they could be useful. Dreams without the chemicals from the PASIV lost their clarity. They were difficult to control, but there were tricks one learned, tools of the trade, to help organise one’s thoughts. Tonight, Will’s dreams were entirely uncooperative. He was back in their old office, him and Garrett, Miriam, Jack, Alana. 

Miriam and Alana were engaged in a discussion on Inception, a familiar argument about the impossibility of introducing an idea and have the subject accept it as their own. Each appealing to Garrett, who demurred in that soft-spoken way he’d had, that he was only the architect. 

This wasn’t useful; Will already knew Inception was possible, and the blurred edges of the dream only served to remind him of what he’d lost. He wandered out of the room, and the halls were plunged in darkness. In the distance, he could hear the clicking of hooved feet on the polished floor, and though he dreaded what he might see, Will was helpless but to follow.

The winding corridors opened very abruptly, the laminated floor replaced by pavement, the walls melting away as a dense forest cropped up around him. It was raining steadily, dark clouds blocking out the moonlight, and the pavement rolled and curled into the distance without a soul in sight. When Will turned, the building was gone entirely, and behind him was the feathered stag that the others had teasingly referred to as Will’s avatar. It’s breath puffed hot over Will’s chilled skin, turning white in the air, and nudged its nose against his shoulder, as if to say “look.”

Back the other way, a pair of headlights cut through the endless darkness. The car was speeding more than was probably safe, given the road conditions, and Will flinched as it drew nearer, wary of the collision though he knew it couldn’t hurt him here. Before it could reach him, the engine made a revving noise and then died entirely. The car coasted to a stop a few yards away and a figure stepped out. Will stepped past the blinding glare of the headlights and saw it was Banks.

Vaguely, Will recalled this moment from the interrogation, only from the perspective of being inside the car. Driving home after a visit to a medical office that hadn’t yet entered the digital age. He’d needed to go pick up the actual paper files. But in the memory, nothing eventful had happened. Banks had stopped and fixed a loose hose, and been back on the road in a matter of minutes. It had blurred past so quickly that Will hadn’t paid much attention to the detail.

Cursing under his breath, Banks went around to the trunk and fished out a flashlight and rag, all the same as Will remembered. And then, something changed. Will couldn’t entirely place his finger on it, there was nothing technically wrong, but Banks had paused for just a moment when he turned to look behind him. Will followed his gaze, fully expecting to see an approaching car from the way Banks was watching, but there was nothing in sight. 

After a moment, Banks turned back and went about looking under the hood. Will studied their surroundings, frowning at how the rain had slowed, drifting almost like snow. The heavy patter was replaced with a gentle roar not unlike a distant river flowing. He held out a hand and watched a drop of rain strike his skin in slow-motion--a perfect sphere, the surface tension holding for one breathless second before it burst.

The stag’s hooves drew Will’s attention back to the front of the car, where Banks was re-attaching a hose that had come loose, and there was something strange about that too. His movements were mechanical, stiff as if he’d pulled a muscle. Will studied it, trying to understand what it was about this moment that had drawn his attention. Why he was recalling it now in his own dream, and how he’d missed whatever it was while in Banks’ mind.

Banks slammed the hood shut and all at once the rain began to fall again, drowning out the ambient sounds, drenching them through and through. Shivering, Banks tightened his coat around himself and hurried back to the driver seat. In seconds, the car was once again out of sight. The stag was gone, too, and Will was alone on the stretch of highway.

Only, that wasn’t true, was it. Will could feel it, that sensation he’d experienced when Banks had looked behind him expectantly. The sensation that accompanied a physical presence just over one’s shoulder, the absolute surety that there would be someone if he turned. This time, through the rain and the gloom, the darkness began to take shape. A darker shade of black bleeding out of the shadows. Shivering, whether from the cold or what he knew he’d find there. The branching antlers, those eyes judging him. Will imagined the expressionless lips twisted in a smirk, though they never even twitched.

“See?” Will whipped around, looking for the source of the voice, but no one was there. He didn’t need to see the face to know who the voice belonged to. 

From somewhere far away, a tinny sound rang out through the night, barely audible under the rain. When Will looked back, the creature was gone, and the dream was in transition. Fog swept towards him, swallowing up the ground, the trees, twining around his feet and legs. Try as he might to cling to the moment, striving towards some understanding, the dream would not cooperate. He was out of practice, and without chemical assistance.

The dreams drifted along more familiar territory. The walkway that led to Garrett’s door, covered in arterial spray. It arched over the shrubbery and along the pillars of the porch--far more than he remembered. Louise’s eyes were glassy, the sky reflected, as she drew her last breaths.

Will stepped over her body, and the ringing grew louder. It drew him in the front door. Warm blood on his face, dripping from the ceiling. Clinging, viscous drops that filled the air with the scent of copper and decay. More than a single body, but maybe as many as four girls, all dead at Garrett’s hand. Jack in the kitchen over Garrett’s body, and Lecter pushing past Will to tend to Abigail. Will frozen to the spot by Garrett’s eyes on his own, as the life drained from him.

And then Will was back in his childhood bedroom, huddled under the sheets with a flashlight, and there was something in the room with him, watching him. His father wasn’t home, his mother long gone, and Will closed his eyes tight and told himself if he didn’t look, it couldn’t hurt him. The ringing was deafening now, drowning out everything except the wild beating of his heart.

He woke with a sharp gasp, eyes blinking open to stare at the water damage on the ceiling of the hotel room. On the nightstand his phone rang again, its screen the only light, casting an eerie blue over the space. Will fumbled to catch it before it stopped ringing, particularly when he saw Jack’s name on the caller idea.

A bleary glance as he swiped right on the phone told him it was after 8. Shit, he should have set an alarm, though he wasn’t exactly on the clock here, and Jack hadn’t given him a specific time. “Jack, hey, sorry, I overslept. But listen, I had a thought--Banks knew we were there, it wasn’t a natural dream. If I could get into his subconscious, without his interference, I think I could--”

Jack’s voice was staticy, his words clipped. “Banks is dead.”


	2. Chapter 2

“What--how?”

“Found him hanging this morning, looks like suicide.” Will could see the weary, resigned slope of Jack’s shoulders behind closed eyes. “Nothing on the camera to suggest otherwise.”

“No,” Will said. He was still half-asleep, caught up in the lingering fog of the dreams trying to tug him back. He shook his head, trying to dispel the cobwebs. “No, Banks wasn’t suicidal. There was nothing--no warning signs.”

“It’d hardly be the first time something like this slipped notice.” Jack very purposefully wasn’t making this personal, but it hung there between them unspoken anyway.

Will was certain of it, though. Banks had felt guilt, sadness, anxiety, and remorse, but he’d clung to the offer that the PASIV interrogation might somehow exonerate him. Might give him answers even he didn’t have over why he’d done what he’d done.

Once he’d showered and dressed and grabbed a muffin from the hotel lobby, Will dragged himself into the office. He went down to the SSDI lab, and it was startling to see the changes that had been made since he’d last been. Bright lights, desks and computers, plenty of agents bustling around the place, far more organised and official than when he’d worked there.

“I was--ah--hoping to use one of the devices?” Will let his tone lit upward in questioning, at the desk nearest the door. 

The woman took him in up and down and handed him a clipboard. “Sign in, and I’ll need your badge.”

Will fished out the temporary id Jack had assigned him and handed it over uncertainly, but she typed it in, and apparently whatever she saw there gave him the access he wanted. “PASIV use is limited to forty-five minutes a day for ride-alongs.”

“Ride-along?” Will raised his brows in questioning.

“Those from outside the lab must accompany an SSDI agent when using the PASIV.” She gave him a tight smile. “Ride-alongs. I believe Agent Salim can assist you.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. You can call Jack Crawford--”

“Will? Holy shit--I never thought I’d see you back here!” 

Miriam Lass looked much the same as Will remembered her, though thinner, with fine lines around the corners of her mouth and eyes, and her hair down loose around her shoulders. She looked healthy, though, and happy, which was a relief given how things had ended for the rest of them in their old department. She came around the desk to clap him on the shoulder. 

“It’s good to see you, Miriam.”

“I’d say the same, if I thought for a second you were here because you wanted to be.” Miriam shook her head. “Jack badger you into it?”

“It’s distressing, how easy I am to read to everyone here,” Will said.

Miriam chuckled a little in disbelief, crossing her arms over her chest. Will’s eye was drawn to the inside bend of her elbow where a catheter port had been inserted. “You? Nah. Jack’s persistence, however, is well-documented, particularly with regards to…” She rolled her eyes skyward and pitched her voice low. “Rhymes with Messapeake Zipper.”

“So you see it too?”

Miriam hummed in agreement. “Not that Jack would let me anywhere near it.” Her annoyance radiates off her in waves, butting up against him. “I’m not a trainee anymore.”

Will had to reign in his scorn. His lack of certification had never meant anything to Jack, and it certainly wasn’t going to stop him now. Jack’s fatherly concern for Miriam obviously didn’t extend to Will. He was aiming for sympathetic with the look he gave her, but had a feeling he failed miserably. At least Miriam didn’t call him on it.

“Look, they’re saying I’ve got to do a ‘ride-along,’” he began, and Miriam waved a hand.

“I got this, Janet, no need to bother Azkar.”

Miriam led him through the lobby to a hall lined with open doors. Through each, in the darkened rooms, comfortable but impersonal and sterile. Gone were the days of their cosy, informal jaunts into the subconscious, worn sofas and recliners scattered with pillows and blankets brought, the surfaces of every table littered with notes and books and leftover takeout, until the lounge was a little slice of home for each of them.

“Lucky you, I finished up the profile I was working on early, and I’ve got a PASIV until two.” She swiped her passcard on one of the closed doors and opened it to an identical room, only this one with a PASIV set up and case file spread out on the table.

Will glanced at her side-long. “I know it’s not the policy, but I’d prefer to go in alone.”

Miriam shook her head. “Say no more.” She swept past him into the room and began to gather up her files and the bag on the floor. Her chin jerked towards the cabinet on the wall. “Fresh needles and tubing in there, and there should be enough juice left in her for what you need. Though you really should check with Jack about logging one out for private use while you’re here.”

She paused at the door. “We should catch up, you know? Grab a beer or something.”

“Sure,” Will agreed, though she probably didn’t believe him. She’d been in his head often enough, after all.

“Will.” When he looked up, Miriam was torn, lip caught between her teeth, already halfway over the threshold but holding onto the door frame with fingers gone white. “It’s good to see you here again.” She took a breath, let it out, then drew another, aborted, like she’d forgotten how her lungs worked. “You know none of us blamed you--”

“You don’t have to--” Will protested.

“What happened with Garrett--”

“Please, Miriam.” Will closed his eyes briefly, but it only made it worse, the sudden gloom that had fallen over the room and the way the lights flickered behind his eyelids. Shadows crept in from the corners, cold against his skin. He opened his eyes and flashed a smile. “Drinks, later.”

After she had gone, Will went to the cabinet to take down the supplies he’d need. The motions were familiar, despite the time that had passed. Switching out the tubing, opening a fresh needle, opening the PASIV to set the level and duration of sedation. The inside of his arm still bore the healing mark from yesterday’s interrogation. Once upon a time they could have all been mistaken for junkies, the marks running up and down their arms. 

Maybe they were little more than junkies after all. No matter how long it had been, Will couldn’t deny the pull of the PASIV and all the nightmares within. His fingers were steady and sure as they’d been making his lures, easily finding the vein and slipping in almost painless. Depressing the button on the PASIV and slumping back, eyes drifting closed, succumbing to the hit.

First, there was the stream.

In the early days, they’d been drunk on what they could create, limited only by the boundaries of their imagination. That, of course, had quickly proved dangerous, and yet it had taken news of Mal’s death to really drive home the point. What they did in the dream had a tangible, lasting impact on the real world. They needed rules, and structure.

For each of them it was different. Miriam’s took on the carefully ordered lines of the BAU, each dream like another folder labelled and stored away in a filing cabinet. Alana’s was a garden, just as orderly when viewed as a whole, but when strolling through the perfume clouded air, all the flowers in riotous bloom, her flair for drama and whismy seeped through. Garrett’s was as precise as any of his blueprints, a new room constructed for each memory, according to its contents, and Jack’s an old barracks that had left an indelible impression upon his psyche.

Will’s was the stream, setting in the rolling hills of Appalachia, in the perpetual golden light of autumn. They’d never discussed it much, though Alana’s eyes lit up with questions at the mention of it. Why he would choose this place, how he could keep it all in order. It was better that she didn’t ask, because Will had no answers that would satisfy her. The water tugged at his legs as he waded into the stream, and Will let it lead him where it would. It might as easily have been the sea, lifting him on the waves, carried by the current of his subconscious. 

The truth of it was, no matter how desperately Alana wanted to understand his mind, how Jack wished to replicate his abilities, Will had no answers for him. It was as reflexive and natural as breathing. He followed the tug of the stream until he was aware of the dream shifting around him, and when he opened his eyes, he was back on the side of the road.

Banks’ car approached in the dark, but this time Will paid it little attention. He focussed instead on the surroundings. The gravel at the edge of the road giving way to overgrown fields, and the distant treeline. Even if someone had tampered with his car, this was not the ideal place to lay in wait. He wandered back to where Banks’ bent under the hood now, cursing as his flesh met with the heat of the engine. Back to the trunk for his tools.

There it was again. The pause where Banks glanced at the road behind him. No matter how Will strained, there was no evidence of the Ripper, and now there never would be, with Banks dead. But what a chance he’d taken, to attempt to Incept a victim on the side of the road, no matter how isolated. Bold even for the Ripper.

The pause tugged at him, an almost physical sensation. Like the current around his ankles, hands winding in the fabric of his clothing and pulling, making him stumble on the pavement. When he fell, his knees crashed into the stream, hands coming up to catch him just in time. It took a long second for him to realise he’d been pulled back to his stream, and even longer for what he was seeing to coalesce. Beneath the rippled surface of the water were faces. Sightless eyes staring back at him, mouths open on voiceless cries, every line of their face etched in his memory. Garrett might have been the one to kill them, but Will still felt responsible for their deaths.

He stumbled backwards, falling again in the water that was rushing now, faster than usual and higher. _It’s a dream_ , he reminded himself, but that did little to calm the racing of his heart. The bodies were all around him, moving now, limbs winding around him, pulling him down.

“It’s a dream,” he said out loud.

“Is it?”

Will’s head snapped up, and Garrett stood at the bank, hands in his pocket, that familiar slouch. Grey skin decaying at the temples and around the mouth, frozen in that unnatural grin. “Whose dream is it, Will?”

“Will!”

Garrett’s attention was drawn to the intrusion, now at attention. Something sharp and dangerous in his expression. Will followed his gaze to Jack, storming into the stream, heedless of the raging current and the bodies, to grab Will by his arms and haul him up.

“Jack--” Will’s eyes darted back to Garrett, who hadn’t looked away from Jack. “What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here.”

Jack, mouth pressed in a thin line, glanced at Garrett warily and back again. “Tell me about it.”

“Hi, Jack,” Garrett said, too cheerfully. “Still charging into other people’s minds like you own the place?”

“Come on.” Jack heaved him back onto dry land. “It’s time to leave.”

Garrett waved to them in parting. “Don’t mind me. I’ll be waiting right here, Will. Whenever you feel like sleeping.”

Will didn’t have any kick planned, and he doubted the time was up on the PASIV. Just when he was wondering how they’d even escape from the dream, Jack disappeared, and a moment later there was a sharp pain in Will’s arm. Then he was blinking his eyes open to the ceiling of the PASIV room at the BAU.

“What the hell was that in there?” Jack was already yelling.

Will pressed a hand to his temple, but there was no fighting off the inevitable hangover of being woken too early, with the drugs still pulsing through his veins. “There’s a reason I left, Jack.”

“You went into the dream of a suspect. With his lawyer present. I don’t need to tell you what it would have done to our case if you’d pulled a stunt like that with them!”

Will met his gaze headon with steely resolve. “You’re the one who insisted on pulling me back into this mess. I told you I didn’t want to do it. Besides, it’s only when I’m the dreamer.”

“You can’t know that. You haven’t shared a dream since it happened.” Jack slammed his hand against the door frame with enough force to make Will jump. “Jesus Christ, Will.”

“I know.” Will shoulders rose defensively as he sunk into himself. “I can’t--I _told_ you.”

Jack swiped a hand over his face, leaving it to cover his mouth as he stared at Will pensively. It was almost as though he was looking right through him. “No more solo dreams.”

“You can’t expect me to be able to do what I need to do with this ride-along business, and I can’t guarantee the safety of anyone entering my dreams.”

Clearly Jack was weighing his desire to catch the Ripper against Will’s mental health. Will tried not to take it personally that it was forgone conclusion. “I want you to see Doctor Lecter.” Will opened his mouth to protest, but Jack carried on. “I know your opinion of him, but he’s good at what he does. If he decides that the projections aren’t a threat outside of your dreams, then we can proceed.”


End file.
